


Young Shadwell Versus The Forces of Hell

by Raphaela_Crowley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1960s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Saves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Sergeant Shadwell, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hastur Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Minor Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens), No Slash, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Shadwell Had A Crappy Childhood, Shadwell Is Bad At Witchfinding, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25299841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley
Summary: The year is 1967 (and Crowley and Aziraphale have just had rather a nasty argument) when Crowley finds himself unexpectedly in trouble with the forces of Hell. Mistaking Hastur for a witch, young Shadwell rescues Crowley and carries him off. Both Hastur and Aziraphale are trying to find where Crowley's been taken to, and young Shadwell's got himself caught in the middle.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Sergeant Shadwell (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	1. Part 1 of 2

_Young Shadwell Versus The Forces of Hell_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

Part **1** of **2**

Lance Corporal Shadwell never dreamed when he was a boy.

For little bitty Shadwell, sleep was a yawning black oblivion which he welcomed with restrained jubilation at the end of the long day, and he didn't bother _day_ -dreaming, since he didn't know what there was in the world to day-dream _about_.

The boy who would be Shadwell didn't know there were fine things, same as he didn't know there were ugly things.

Not yet, at any rate.

He knew the vaguely northern farm he grew up on; also, he knew his grumpy father's hacking cough and spit and the noises he'd make before he'd curse everyone from Shadwell's late mother – God rest her soul, even though his father evidently didn't want the Almighty to do any such thing – to their nearest neighbours several miles up the winding country lane.

He'd once beaten Shadwell black and blue for graciously accepting a couple tins of condensed milk as a friendly loan from them.

After that, Shadwell didn't speak to them any more. Not worth it.

Besides, his father seemed to think they were up to no good, and he didn't want to fraternize with any folk who was up to no good.

They had a big ginger cat with tawny eyes they called Tuffy. When he died, indigestion or run over or something, they got them another, a skinny black one as named Mr. Whiskers.

In retrospect, as an adult, Shadwell thought that very suspicious. Talk about your funny names!

Probably, they were witches. They did the ghost-raising, at any rate. Or at least, one of the older aunts in that family read tea leaves. Everybody knew the next step from tea leaves was ghost-raising. You couldn't start one and not eventually do the other, Shadwell was fairly certain. That's the way he'd heard it; tea leaves were the gateway to ghost-raising and table-a-rappings, ask anyone you like and they'd tell you the same.

Shadwell's father wasn't a witch. And Shadwell told everyone he was a brave man – he didn't say _good_ – when asked.

For obvious reasons, Shadwell didn't like his father much. When he wasn't shouting or hitting, which wasn't very often, Shadwell's father – it's been rumoured – tried to call him John (or maybe it was Jim), but it didn't stick.

Shadwell got the hint too early in life to be saddled through much of it with such a useless thing as a _first name_.

After he learned about witches – and how the church wasn't doing any good in the fight against them, rather the opposite, really – he wouldn't have bothered referring to it as a _christian_ name.

Shadwell did not consider himself christian. The night he met Anthony J. Crowley was the first time he'd been willing to step over a church's threshold since he left the farm behind.

There was good money to be made as an underhanded locksmith and witchfinding didn't pay like it should.

And if Witchfinder Captain Ffolkes – who'd taught Shadwell all he knew, after he explained to his surprised cellmate that he wasn't the _bad_ sort of arsonist, only in prison because the fire was lit the wrong day – was off some where in the afterlife, moved onto his reward, Shadwell saw no reason not to cash in himself.

Too bad about Ffolkes, though. Shadwell had rather liked him. He was the only person who willingly believed Shadwell didn't belong in prison.

"Ye don't belong here, laddie," he'd say, with a companionable sigh, as they settled down in their bunks for the night and the guards flicked the lights off. "Naw more th'n I do. That's how I knew ye was worthy to learn of the great cause."

Shadwell also liked his cellmate's accent, which he was pretty sure was Scottish. It sounded very northern, anyway, which was good. Shadwell preferred north to south by general principal, for reasons only understood by himself.

The boy Shadwell who never dreamed didn't have the accent the man Shadwell tried – though it wandered and wavered unknowingly in his valiant attempts – to implement after Ffolkes was gone.

It made him feel like a different person. A new man. And what else _should_ one feel like after being set free?

Was only good sense, really.

The funny thing was, after a few weeks on the outside, Shadwell didn't realise somehow that his accent was fake. He'd genuinely forgotten he was only pretending somewhere along the way.

His old voice was gone, just like his old life.

Comes of not dreaming when you're young enough to work out what's real and what isn't – you fall out of practice, and it makes you a little mad.

* * *

_1967:_

It was a dark and stormy night.

Of course, it wasn't _supposed_ to be. The chipper news broadcaster Aziraphale had seen grinning out of a television set in a shop window earlier had promised clear, starry skies all evening.

It appeared, however, that the dear lady was sorely mistaken.

Instead of sitting down on a nice breezy hill atop a tartan picnic blanket for a clandestine evening picnic with Crowley, the angel was sitting in the passenger seat of the parked Bentley, looking out at sheets of pelting rain as they pounded the windshield, while Crowley – slouched in the driver's seat with a peeved, edgy look on his face – drummed his fingernails on the steering wheel.

The rainfall had let up exactly _once_ during the last four hours. Exactly long enough for a leggy working girl to – having spied Crowley through the window – sashay over and tap on the glass.

He'd wound the window down. "Yes?"

"Wondering if you were up for a good time, love."

Aziraphale had been crawling around in the back at that time, trying to locate an unopened bottle of wine that had rolled under the seat. He chose that moment to pop up, looking flustered. "Ah. Hello."

Their visitor then had made three instantaneous assumptions – two of which were wrong. " _Oh_." She took a couple steps back. "Sorry, love, didn't realise you already had company."

"Good Heavens," cried Aziraphale, squinting out at the young woman. "Why aren't you wearing a coat? It's freezing." He made an assumption of his own: that she had come up to the car to beg for money (which was not entirely wrong, of course, she just didn't expect to get it for nothing). "Wait a moment, young lady." The angel reached for his wallet. "Let me give you some money so you can buy a nice warm jumper." She looked so _cold_ , poor thing! "A tenner or two should be enough."

Crowley, his face gone as red as a cherry tomato, had had to reach over and grab Aziraphale's wrist. " _No_ , angel."

"Why ever not, dear boy?" He'd been genuinely perplexed.

"Because I don't fancy getting arrested." Crowley made a quick shooing motion at the gawking woman, reaching to wind up the window. "Do you mind? We're in the middle of something."

"Yes," Aziraphale had sulked. "In the middle of a spoiled picnic. What we're meant to do with sixteen miniature ham sandwiches _now_ , I–"

"Oi, give one here." Crowley reached into the hamper between them, snagged a little sandwich, and promptly stuffed it into Aziraphale's open mouth. "There." _Hmmf!_ "Much better."

Aziraphale had then tried to say something scathing, but needed to chew and swallow first, ultimately deciding – by the time he was done – it wasn't worth the effort.

The rain had started up again after the sex worker left them alone.

Sharing the wine – once Aziraphale succeeded in dragging the bottle out from under the seat – they'd fallen into a brooding silence for a while. And then promptly begun one of their longest-running arguments regarding humanity.

Crowley, as always, insisted that this whole free will thing was bollocks if you didn't start everyone off exactly the same, and Aziraphale, as always, was vehement that the demon had it wrong.

The angel must have come across as more self-righteous than usual, because Crowley got fed up, glared at him sidelong, burped, and said, "D'you know the real difference between me and you, angel? D'you know the _actual_ difference? Your _only_ actual difference?"

Aziraphale blinked stupidly and took another swig from the wine bottle. "What'do you mean?"

"There's this man," Crowley began.

"What man?" Aziraphale squinted suspiciously.

"This man I'm talking about." He pushed on, leaning his cheek against the seat's upholstery and staring intently at his friend from behind his sunglasses. "And he burns books."

Aziraphale was aghast. "Horrible man."

"Be quiet for a moment and listen. He burns rare books."

"Even worse!" Aziraphale looked like he was going to have an aneurysm.

"And this man," Crowley continued; "imagine he's going to walk into your book shop tomorrow, grab an armload of rare editions – some of them the only copy in existence far as you know – and chuck the lot of 'em on a bonfire he's got blazing outside."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to ask how the man got a fire going in the middle of Soho without anyone noticing.

Crowley, reaching over and stuffing another little sandwich into the angel's open mouth, ignored his muffled noises of protest and charged ever forward with his startling speech. "You can stop him, before he burns a single one, but there's a catch."

He swallowed and smacked his lips. "Eh? What's that?"

"You've got to kill him – just make him drop down dead, rescue the books."

The angel was nonplussed. "But that's _awful_."

"Well, he burns rare books," Crowley pointed out. "He's a bloody arsonist. Maybe a fanatic of some kind. You want this man walking around free? Just kill him – I won't tell. Our little secret."

"I'd never." Aziraphale's cheeks flush. "I don't think I _could_."

Crowley reached up and moved part of his red fringe from over his eyes, then took off his sunglasses. "Going to let him burn up your entire collection of Bibles, are you?"

"This isn't _real_ , Crowley."

"First book dropping from this lunatic's arms onto the bonfire is your beloved Unrighteous Bible. _Ah_. D'you know what? I'm going to rather miss that one myself."

A look of pain was camping on the angel's face. "Stop it."

"Then goes the Bugger All This Bible – _whoosh_! Up in flames. Isn't that the only book in the world with a record of what God said to you in Eden, about the flaming sword? Going to let that go, too, eh?"

"Crowley, you know I don't _like_ this. You're upsetting me."

"And ooh, hmm, what's next? Is that your scroll in the handwriting of Saint I-Love-Me-Some-Damn-Good-Mushrooms from Patmos? I do believe it is!"

"I had that in a locked climate-controlled cabinet! How did he get it?"

"He stole the key – stay on topic. Picture it, your beloved scroll nothing but a pile of so much ash."

"Oh, Crowley!"

"Don't 'oh Crowley' me, Aziraphale; you can stop it any moment you like – just kill the hypothetical bastard."

"No!"

"Aziraphale, are you telling me – are you seriously telling me, to my face – you think some random, miserable human life, some book-burning wanker you clearly would despise if you met even on the best of days, is more important than what you treasure most in this world? You think – just because you're an angel – I don't know you're _lying_?"

Aziraphale swallowed back a lump in his throat. He was near tears. "I'm not lying."

"Yeah, you are," Crowley insisted darkly. "You'd do it; you'd kill him. But you're too ashamed to admit it. _I'd_ do it, Aziraphale, and I don't even like books. But I know what's worth while. _I'd_ kill him, even over something that didn't matter to me personally. And if it _did_ matter, if he wanted to burn the Bentley, I'd add his sorry corpse to the pile of those of the door-to-door salesmen I paved the road to Hell with eons ago."

Aziraphale choked out, voice tinged with disgust, "May you be forgiven."

The demon snorted. "See, that's the difference between us – that's my point. We'd both bloody do it, but you can't admit it and live with yourself. _I_ can. That's it. There's your beautiful bottom line, angel. Everything else about us is the damn same under your coating of celestial goodness."

Giving him a hard, cool look, Aziraphale reached for the door handle. The wine he'd drunk was miraculously back in the bottle, his eyes no longer glassy or tearful.

"See, Crowley, this is exactly how I knew you'd be."

"What'doya mean?" he slurred.

"You're never _slow_ with me, never _gentle_ – you always have to win – have to speed up until I can't take it any more."

In the swamp of his mind, Crowley recalled Aziraphale – the last time he'd seen him before tonight, after the angel had unexpectedly given him the tartan thermos of Holy Water he'd been setting up a caper to obtain – getting out of the Bentley.

_You go too fast for me._

And maybe he was right – maybe he did go too fast.

"Angel. Come _on_. Don't be like this."

"You're wrong, Crowley. About everything."

"Now hang on a minute..."

"You think that if everyone started out the same, that's the only way people could choose to do good? Think about _this_ , Crowley – _we_ started out the same. Both of us. Angels. You're fallen, and I'm not. How do you explain that?"

"That's a low blow, you smug bastard," Crowley hissed, his snaky eyes going a shade darker with fury.

"I'm taking the hamper and the umbrella, you can keep the wine, and I'm leaving. Walking home – back to the shop – by _myself_ ," Aziraphale declared pertly, snatching up his things and leaning on the door as he tugged the handle. " _Don't_ telephone me tomorrow."

"Don't _want_ to," sneered Crowley.

* * *

_The Next Day:_

"Crowley." Aziraphale sighed heavily into the receiver, the exquisitely manicured fingers on his other hand lightly and irritably stroking the side of the rotary. "I thought I told you _not_ to telephone me."

"Yeah, I know." It sounded like he was hissing through gnashed teeth. "Something's happened."

"What?" Tensing, Aziraphale let his idling hand drop to his side, the other tightening its grasp on the receiver.

"Hell thinks I did something wrong – they suspect me of double dealing, and they've sent an old friend up here to collect me. If you don't hear from me again in twenty-four hours, I need you to go the place I've been staying – the address is in the glove compartment of the Bentley, which is parked near St. James's. I need you to take back the thermos of Holy Water. I can't get to it from where I'm at, and if Hell finds out I had that stashed away they're not going to be very happy."

"Crowley–"

"While you're there take _anything_ that might suggest you and I have ever had a conversation – I don't think they know about you yet. As far as Hell or Heaven is concerned, I never even spotted you down here, haven't seen you since Eden. Got that?"

Aziraphale felt as if the floor of the bookshop had suddenly, treasonously opened up and was attempting to swallow him whole. "Tell me where you are, Crowley. I'll come to you."

"M'sorry, angel, that's _not_ going to happen."

"But my dear fellow..."

" _Don't_ come looking for me." _Click._

Aziraphale dropped the receiver, not bothering to set it back in place properly, just letting it dangle where it fell, and made a beeline for the coat rack. He snatched his coat off it so hastily the sleeve caught and he nearly took the whole rack out the door _with_ him.

Because he was going to go looking for the demon.

Disobeying wasn't in Aziraphale's nature, of course, but neither was leaving a friend in trouble.

* * *

Shadwell was walking along the neon-lit street, lighting a cigarette, when he spotted none other than Anthony J. Crowley practically _falling_ out of a public telephone box, clutching his side.

Before he could rush over there and ask if he was in need of some assistance, make it abundantly clear he was always ready to help a wealthy gentleman in need, a very strange-looking fellow in a grey trench-coat with a matching hat over his pale hair accosted Mr. Crowley, who was screaming, "Hastur, I _told_ you, I didn't do it! It wasn't _me_."

"I don't care, _Craw-lee_."

"Well, if you keep this up, you're going to have to explain the discorporated body." Mr. Crowley peeled his hand off his side; it was slick with blood. "Good luck with that."

Dead bodies and blood and wild threats? Shadwell shuddered inwardly. He should have known Crowley was a criminal; anyone who wore sunglasses when they weren't on an actual beach generally was.

And talking about dispatched bodies while blood oozed from his side?

He was in deep, that Mr. Crowley.

Shadwell tisked and tossed his cigarette away.

Because Crowley wouldn't stop fighting him, refused go quietly to wherever this creepy blighter was meaning to drag him off to, he (the one called Hastur) said, rather loudly, "What's one more body between us, Crowley? Satan and Beelzebub will just have to pardon it – I'm hardly out of their favour, after all," and flung poor Mr. Crowley into the street as a vehicle came speeding along.

Shadwell's blood was a-pumping like anything as he ran into the street, grabbed Crowley by the waist, and dragged him out of the vehicle's path.

Hastur swore and, disappearing, materialized right in front of them on the far side.

"Who the Heaven are _you_?" He glowered at Shadwell.

There was something about that glower – so darkly evil, so utterly unreasonable – which brought Shadwell's mind subconsciously back to that northern farm where a little boy never dreamed and set him to – at least on some level – remembering a certain man's stinging leather belt and drunken blows.

He snarled. "Ye leave yon good gentleman alwone, ya witch... Appearing and disappearing every which way like ye had any right to! And don't think I didn't hear ye calling on the devil himself! I heard it with me own two ears. Ye thick with Lucifer, ye spawn of Satan, dawn't deny it! What's more, there is a toad on yer head!" (His hat had not materialized across the street with him.)

"I'm going to _enjoy_ killing you," growled Hastur, who was not expecting any human to be stupid enough – or unfrightened enough of his now fiendishly glowing red eyes – to actually do something as idiotic as attempt to _defend_ themselves.

Which was why he was shocked when a bullet hit him directly in the chest and Shadwell, still crouched beside Crowley (who wasn't moving or opening his eyes), was holding a smoking pistol he'd drawn – so fast the demon hadn't properly seen him do it – from his coat pocket.

Clutching his chest, from the centre of which a dark stain was flowering out, Hastur began to hobble for the nearest alleyway to avoid a vivid discorporation in front of a human.

He'd be back for Crowley very, very soon.

Shadwell barely reacted. It wasn't the first time he'd seen a mean glower wiped off a face like Hastur's after being shot at. There was a reason he'd been in prison in order to meet Ffolkes and learn about the witchfinder army – the fight against the darkness – in the first place. Course, he'd missed that time, or else he'd still be in that cell now. They'd never have let him out if he'd succeeded the first time. But then, his father wasn't a witch – made this a completely different thing. Wasn't like successfully managing to shoot a proper _person_.

"Are ye dead, Mr. Crowley?" Shadwell prodded him lightly with the barrel of the pistol. He hoped he wasn't, very much so, but was more or less prepared to search his pockets for loose change if he answered in the negative.

"No, Lance Corporal Shadwell," murmured Crowley, eyes remaining clinched shut. "It would appear I've simply fallen unconscious."

"Aye, that's good. Showed that witch-man with the toad on his head a thing or two, no mistake. You were very brave." With that, Shadwell scooped him up and began to walk again with a slightly limp Crowley dangling from his arms. "Don't ye worry – get ye some place safe."

"My glasses," whispered Crowley.

"Nighttime," Shadwell said, gently but in a tone laced with judgement. "Ye don't wear sunglasses at night. Sun en't out."

"Need them. My eyes," Crowley insisted.

"Right then. If yer gonna fuss about it, don't suppose it would do any harm ta go back and get 'em." Quickly glancing backwards, Shadwell spotted a pair of sunglasses flashing red and black reflectively under the neon lights. They were dangling precariously off the pavement's edge.

Crowley's head lolled to one side.

"We're bendin' over now," Shadwell warned. "Don't take sick or nothin'." He squatted and scooped them up by the bridge with his little finger.

* * *

Crowley was hesitant to open his eyes as long as Shadwell carried him. One look at them, and Shadwell might drop him in the gutter and leave him to discorporate. Shadwell had retrieved his sunglasses, but hadn't given them to him yet, as they still dangled from the witchfinder's crooked little finger.

Crowley did sneak a peek to try and work out where they were when Shadwell slowed and started fumbling for a key. They appeared to be at the side door of some rundown hotel; it smelled like cigarettes and had some very inconsiderately loud rats squeaking insults at one another in the walls.

"Got a room just up here," Shadwell said, finally locating his key. "Safe enough. Yon devil-worshippers en't likely to look for you here."

They _were_ , and Crowley was a little sorry for it – Shadwell didn't deserve to be caught in the middle – but he was still bleeding, and there wasn't much he could do on his own right then. He wondered vaguely if Hastur's body had expired yet. And, more importantly, how long it would take one irate Duke of Hell to get a new body and return with backup.

Perhaps he could send Shadwell on an errand to get the Holy Water? He might not even have to lie about what it was! Shadwell would be keen on anything that destroyed demons. And if Aziraphale was following his instructions, _he_ wouldn't be retrieving it for another twenty-three hours at least. There should be time. Except, there were certain things he had, stashed away, that would turn Shadwell against him as quickly as a glimpse of his snaky eyes might. He didn't trust Shadwell not to get curious and snoop. Probably too risky, then. Damn.

The demon felt himself being deposited on a bed that was so hard it could double as a desk. The scratchy comforter smelled like dog excrement.

Something light landed on the bed beside him.

His sunglasses! Crowley snatched them up and shoved them onto his face so he could safely open his eyes.

Shadwell was flicking on a lamp and rummaging in a dingy-looking pack for something. "Got some first aid in here somewhere. Ye just sit tight, Mr. Crowley."

A box of firelighters flew across the room, as they'd apparently gotten in the way of Shadwell's frantic search. Crowley did not find this very reassuring. His head was swimming. He knew he must have lost a lot of blood by now. Luckily, the knife Hastur had stabbed him with before he made it to the telephone box to call Aziraphale hadn't gone in all the way. There was a good chance it hadn't pierced anything too important.

* * *

Aziraphale flew through the air, landing on his stomach outside a tavern he'd met Crowley at once before. "Oof." The fallen angel rose slowly, aching all over, and began to shake the dust and road-side debris off his arms and the front of his coat. "Honestly! A simple 'no, he hasn't been in here to use the phone tonight' would have sufficed! There was no need to _throw_ me!"

* * *

"Glad to see ye only got two nipples." Shadwell produced a very dirty-looking bandage.

"Not clean," groaned Crowley, shirtless and shivering in the small lavatory across the hall Shadwell had dragged him to after locating the first aid kit. "Covered in...not clean stuff..." He sniffed, then shifted on the lip of the chipped porcelain tub he'd been balancing against.

"Pah! Dirt's good for ye, dawn't be a pansy." Shadwell gave him a no-nonsense frown and produced, somewhat to Crowley's mild relief, a whiskey flask which he set beside the bandage. "Put up yer arms."

"Guess it's better than nothing," Crowley muttered, lifting his arms in exhausted compliance.

When he'd completed his – honestly, not very good – slosh some whiskey and patch-up and wrap-around job, Shadwell nodded sombrely, as if well pleased with his own efforts. "Always remember ye got yer scar fightin' the good fight – it's what Witchfinder Captain Ffolkes liked to say about his. Covered in scars, he was. Proud of 'em even when he was on his last breath."

Someone banged at the lavatory door, shaking the lock. Its chain rattled wildly against the wood. "Oi! _My_ turn! Been waiting for twenty minutes!"

"Hold yer horses, ye great pillock!" Shadwell shouted, giving the door a sharp kick from their side, making the chain rattle even more wildly. "Got a good man bleeding tah death in here after fightin' the forces of darkness. Show some bloody respect!"

* * *

Aziraphale tapped his index finger tentatively against a dark windowpane. The establishment was closed, but he knew Crowley hung around here sometimes.

He used a miracle to unlock the window and lifted it enough to stick his head in. "Crowley?"

"Crowley?" Another voice, which was too dark for any angel to mistake for an echo, called back from inside. "Croh-lee! You flash bastard!"

The lights came on and Aziraphale caught a glimpse of a very peeved looking demon couple kicking chairs out of the way and blessing profusely before he ducked and pressed his back to the side of the building, heart hammering and chest heaving.

"He's not here," growled one of the pair.

"I thought I saw someone at the window. It's open. Could've been him."

"Nah, was an owl. Had white feathers."

Footsteps came a little nearer, and Aziraphale managed a weak, "Er...hoot, hoot..."

Luckily no one had ever told these demons (Hastur and Ligur) that owls do not ordinarily _say_ "Hoot, hoot," as opposed to actually making the _noise_ , and that, furthermore, they do not have British accents.

Aziraphale crawled away, unfollowed, on his hands and knees.

He mulled over what he'd learned there.

On the one hand, if the demons were looking for him, that meant Crowley wasn't in Hell or discorporated yet...

He was still alive.

What a relief.

On the other, where in blazes _was_ he?


	2. Part 2 of 2

_Young Shadwell Versus The Forces of Hell_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

Part **2** of **2**

Shadwell was surprisingly more interesting the more you talked to him, Crowley was finding – and it wasn't only because Shadwell had let him finish off what was left in the whiskey flask after he bandaged him either, though it didn't hurt.

No, it was more that Shadwell had a way of being charming despite his rough edges all the while being bizarrely oblivious to it. Most people of this sort tend to be the introverted, wallflower types, but Shadwell was unapologetically loud and boisterous once you really got him going. _That_ wasn't surprising – no wallflower would have shot a duke of Hell point-blank in the chest. Crowley did get the impression, however, that Shadwell's boisterous nature came largely from over-compensation. Something had definitely happened to the man, somewhere along the way, that scared any mousy, retiring tendencies right out of him.

This...this was what Crowley had been trying to explain to Aziraphale; you got a gun-wielding nutter, charming or otherwise, when you started them off wrong. You didn't get a church-going citizen who'd gone to see _The Sound of Music_ seven times when it was playing, and (because it took all sorts) _liked_ it, from whatever murky background Lance Corporal Shadwell had been short-changed with.

Although, it was pretty lucky for Crowley that Shadwell was, well, Shadwell, or else he'd probably be discorporated and being tortured in the bowels of Hell, awaiting trial (if they didn't decide to just dispense with the jokes), right now.

Instead, he was listening to Shadwell's stories of naked witches spreading ferment across the country and nobody doing a 'damned thing' about it while he leaned against the world's flattest pillows, still very much on earth and alive, occasionally muttering, to Shadwell's gratification, "Uh-huh," or "Absolutely," or "Yeah, that'll show them," whenever the witchfinder paused for breath.

"Ye know, Mr. Crowley," Shadwell said, nodding pleasantly, "I like ye. I could tell ye was the righteous sort right from the start."

Even recovering from being stabbed, and vaguely wondering when the forces of Hell were going to break down the door (he wasn't sure what was keeping them, honestly), Crowley wasn't above a little ironic humour. He grinned. "What gave it away?"

"Dawn't know, jest somethin' about ye."

"Was it the fact that I was handing out hundreds of pounds when you first met me?"

"Mr. Crowley!" Shadwell put a hand to his heart. "That you would imply I only like ye for what I kin get from ye!"

"You saved me tonight," Crowley told him. "And I don't care _why_ you did it. I'm grateful."

"Yer most welcome – one can't fight the darkness alone," Shadwell declared. "It's like a brotherhood." A thought seemed to occur to him, and he added, "Whatever happened with that church business of yours? Was the mission compromised?"

"Long story."

"Ah. Well, we've got all night."

Crowley stared at him impassively.

"Just tell me this, then," he said, a little hurt, "ye didn't find yerself another locksmith, did ye? Because Ffolkes was the best, and I learned from him. Ye couldn't find no better, not even if ye went tah Wales or Scotland."

"Nope. No other locksmith. Just got called off."

"That's all right, then." Shadwell eased himself up from the squeaky upholstered chair he'd dragged over to the bedside to be near Crowley after helping him back onto the bed when they returned from the lavatory. "I've got tah make a quick trip across the hall – me bladder needs relieving. Ye be all right on yer own till I get back? Got everything ye need?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Well, if ye need something tah take yer mind off the wound in the meantime–" and Shadwell reached for the dust-coated radio (one Crowley would have bet money was not operational) by the window, setting it in the seat he was vacating.

Crowley bit back a curse, tightening his smile into a brittle ghost of mirth. He couldn't explain to Shadwell the cock-up that had just been made – and it was a big one.

Even though the only thing coming out of the radio was a windy white noise (you couldn't hear what anyone was _saying_ , not from speakers so clogged with ash and nicotine), Crowley knew the moment Shadwell left the room...before he could reach over and switch it off...

CROWLEY, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING!

"Serious question?"

CROWLEY, DO YOU CARE TO EXPLAN HOW YOU DISCORPERATED A DUKE OF HELL WHO HAD COME TO APPREHEND YOU?

"Yeah, uh, technically, _I_ didn't do that."

STAY WHERE YOU ARE, CROWLEY, WE ARE COMING FOR YOU. YOU WILL NOT ATTEMPT TO EVADE PUNISHMENT A SECOND TIME. DUKE HASTUR HAS BEEN ISSUED A NEW BODY.

Now _that_ was just special treatment, plain and simple, getting a new body so damnably fast. Made one go a little green with envy just thinking about it.

"Does it matter that I can explain everything?"

NO. NOT ONE DAMNED BIT.

"Right. Lovely talking to you. Bye now." Crowley switched off the dial, hopped off the bed, ignored the sharp pain in his side, and yanked open the door.

A startled Shadwell stood there, just back from the lavatory.

"We have to get out of here _now_."

"Why's that?"

"No time to explain. Someone's coming. Is there _anywhere_ we can go?"

"Nawt too many places open right now," mused Shadwell, rubbing his chin. "But there's this little cafe that's near always operational. Greasy spoon joint. I like goin' in for a cup of tea on occasion – they always remember I like mine with nine sugars."

"Let's go," Crowley insisted, without missing a beat, nudging Shadwell towards the nearest stairwell.

"Are ye sure ye're well enough to be gadding about at all hours of the night?" Shadwell checked, though he allowed himself to be herded forward.

"Yes," said Crowley, a little shortly, "and I'd like to remain so." Hastur in his new body and whoever he brought back with him – probably Ligur, since they shared a rank and were always paired up – would make certain he wasn't in any state for greasy spoon dining if they stayed here. "Just keep moving."

* * *

"So, your friend's missing, and you're stopping in for a slice of cake?" The man behind the counter gave Aziraphale a look of puzzled disapproval.

Aziraphale frowned. He'd only come in to ask for directions, really. Was it _his_ fault they kept the cake on a rotating glass display and it caught his attention in spite of the turmoil he was currently facing? Anxiety made him peckish.

"I'm getting it to _go_ ," he pointed out tetchily, shifting on the vinyl barstool.

"Right, but why are you showing everyone a picture of your missing friend in full Regency costume?" The man slid a sepia photograph of Crowley in Regency clothing – complete with top hat and sideburns – across the counter, back to Aziraphale.

"It's the only one I _have_!" And it wasn't a costume, but he couldn't tell anyone that. "You're sure he hasn't been in here?"

"You still want that cake? Because, no offence, you don't look like you need it."

"Yes, I still want it," sighed Aziraphale, ignoring the implication that he was fat and making a hasty, rolling hand-motion. "But if you wouldn't mind going a _bit_ faster?" He looked anguished. "I'm in a frightful hurry."

The man made a deliberate show of cutting the cake as slowly as humanly possible until Aziraphale – at the end of his rope – performed a minor miracle which made the knife start chopping large slices so fast that the man nearly lost a finger in the process.

Unsure of exactly what was happening, he deposited Aziraphale's slice into a little box and slipped the box into a paper bag which he folded hastily and handed over to the suddenly very intense angel.

"Have a good night, sir," he croaked, his voice gone weak and squeaky.

"Same to you," Aziraphale called over his shoulder as he left. "Do mind yourself. Can never be too careful with knives."

Trembling, the man glanced down at his dominant hand and waggled his fingers, grateful for the presence of each blessed one of them.

* * *

Shortly after Aziraphale left the cafe, Crowley and Shadwell came in and sat down. Crowley made a point of sitting as far away from any windows as possible.

Their server happened to be the man who'd been minding the counter during Aziraphale's visit. His voice was back to normal, more or less, but he was still shaken up.

"Do I _know_ you?" he asked Crowley.

Crowley shrugged, staring down at the water-stained silverware on the table as if it was hypnotically fascinating to him. "Don't think so."

"You seem oddly familiar."

"I've got one of those faces."

"Right, well, what can I get you?"

"I'll have my usual cup of tea," Shadwell told him, then waved over the table at Crowley, "and whatever yon gentleman wants – he's had a rough night."

"Mug of hot apple cider." Crowley decided he could use a little warming up – he felt cold right down to his aching bones.

The server jotted that down and left, giving Crowley a last fixed glance, as if he were trying to place him.

"Hey, I know you, don't I?" came a woman's voice, from across the cafe, next.

"What is that, the question of the night?" snapped Crowley, who was on the verge of screaming that he didn't bloody know _anybody_ , please leave him alone so he could avoid the forces of Hell in whatever peace and tranquillity he could still muster.

The speaker turned out to be the sex worker from last night – the one who'd tapped on the Bentley's window. Crowley thought Aziraphale would be gratified to see she was wearing a warming-looking jumper (albeit it a very low-necked one, which did nothing to conceal the fact that she had a number of five-pound notes stuffed in her cleavage) and sensible slacks.

She clip-clopped over on a pair of heels that, if they weren't actually defying gravity, were certainly challenging it similarly to a tightrope walker balancing with one of those long poles at the circus.

"We dawn't know ye, ye hoor," bellowed Shadwell. "Away with ye." He added, in a low mutter, "Hooring's a gateway to witchcraft, ask anyone ye like."

Crowley was tempted to ask if there was anything – anything at all – in Shadwell's estimation – that was _not_ a direct gateway to witchcraft.

"Whatever you say, love." The woman studied them both for a moment.

If Aziraphale gave off a certain impression, Shadwell gave off the exact opposite. Shadwell had never had a manicure in his life; his fingernails were ragged and all different lengths. Possibly because he believed manicures were a gateway into witchcraft, or at least that most manicurists met in candlelit back rooms to do Ouija on Friday nights after they closed up.

"You're a handsome one," she told Shadwell, ignoring his intense glower.

"Aye, what of it?" Shadwell wasn't vain, but he'd looked into a mirror on occasion, and wasn't stone blind, and thus was willing to acknowledge her statement as fact.

"Well, it's just, don't think this forward of me, love, but I've got this friend I'd be _thrilled_ to set you up with."

"I'd sooner sup with the deevil than the bosom companion of a hoor."

She ignored this. "Her name's Marjorie Potts – and I know this sounds daft, love, but you really do look like her type. She'd go absolutely bananas over you."

"I dawn't want none of yer hoor friends going any manner fruits over me! Don't care if it's bananas or tangerines or..." Shadwell seemed to loose track of his train of thought here.

" _Kumquats_?" Crowley suggested sardonically.

"Aye!" Shadwell snapped his fingers and pointed appreciatively at Crowley. "Dawn't want no kumquats. I'm a soldier, a plain biscuits man, got no need of yer fancy fruits and jellies."

"She's very pretty, if that's what you're worried about. Wouldn't set you up with a troll, love. Never dream of it."

"Pah, what's prettiness? There's them as says Lucifer was the most beautiful angel in Heaven afore he became a force a-evil."

Crowley could have told him this was far from the truth – Lucifer had been a handsome enough angel, sure, impressive by _human_ standards maybe, but the demon could name at least six angels from the olden days that had vastly surpassed Satan in the looks department.

The working girl patted Shadwell on the shoulder, paying no heed to the way he recoiled, and said it was all very well, but she'd put her friend's number down on a napkin and leave it at her table if he changed his mind.

While Shadwell barked harmless insults at the woman like it was going out of style, Crowley wondered if Shadwell had any idea – any bloody idea – how many people just _adored_ him upon a mere first meeting, in spite of himself.

Truly, it never seemed to occur to the deranged witchfinder that anyone might find anything about him – other than his face and build, in a general kind of way – remotely attractive. That was rather sad. What ever _happened_ to this man to make him like that?

 _Humans._ Just went you thought you'd seen every variety of them, a brand new one cropped up – a wild hothouse flower randomly appearing in a bed of standard tulips, like God's personal joke – to surprise you.

The server returned, setting two questionably clean mugs down in front of them, along with nine sugar packets.

"I _have_ seen you before," he told Crowley, his voice firm this time.

"I'm telling you," the demon argued, "you _haven't_."

"You're the guy from the picture."

"Wot?"

"Yeah, this fussy little blonde man is going around with this photograph of you in a Regency costume, asking everyone if you've been in."

_Aziraphale!_

Aziraphale, out and about with a picture of him, looking for him at the same time as Hastur!

Gnashing his teeth, Crowley resisted the urge to scream, taking out his frustration by clanging a spoon against the inside of his mug with brute force.

Why couldn't the stupid angel just follow instructions this once? What was so complicated about 'wait twenty-four hours then go through my belongings before Hell has a chance'? He really couldn't have made it any bloody clearer. What did he have to do to make him _listen_? Obtain a damn pair of semaphore flags?

* * *

Aziraphale decided that books – while still the greatest thing in the world, apart from possibly crepes – had let him down in the narrative department. They'd raised entirely false expectations. He blamed all those optimistic human authors. At this point, in any decent story, the hero always found his lost companion.

Sometimes he even got to save the day.

Unless, of course, it was a tragedy.

Aziraphale loved a good tragedy – a tragic narrative went wonderfully with a hot cup of cocoa on a blustery afternoon, especially if you happened to have some nice iced biscuits on the side – he just thought they ought to stay on paper where they belonged.

He'd never asked to _live_ in one.

What was going to happen if he couldn't find Crowley? Might he actually lose him for ever?

The angel found himself wondering what Hell's reaction would be if he knocked on their backdoor and politely asked for his nemesis back. No, he'd have to insist, clearing his throat pointedly, a replacement demon wouldn't do; he didn't want to fight for the minds of humanity with somebody _new_ , he just wanted _Crowley_.

Oh, yes, _that_ would go over well with both their respective sides...

Sinking down onto a bench under a buzzing street light, Aziraphale took out the photograph he'd been going about with. It had been taken the second-to-last time Aziraphale saw Crowley before his unannounced disappearance for the rest of the nineteenth century. That lonely hundred years had done things to his mind Aziraphale didn't like thinking about. Now it might all happen again, only worse, because at least Crowley had been safe – only sleeping – and there was precious little chance of that in _this_ situation.

Aziraphale felt the blood draining from his exhausted face. The last thing he'd said to Crowley in person was, 'Don't telephone me tomorrow'. Tears pricked hotly at his eyes; he dashed them away with the back of his wrist.

"Bugger this for a lark," growled a menacing voice, and Aziraphale leaped up and ran behind the street light.

The two demons he'd seen earlier that night came hurdling down the pavement, kicking over dustbins and screaming all manner of profanity into the night.

"D'you think he did it?"

"Ligur, I said it to _him_ , and I'll say it to _you_ – I don't bloody _care_."

"Right, like you said, gonna string the flash bastard up by this thumbs irregardless."

"Want to," he growled, eyes flaring. "Except Beelzebub wants me to find out – if he _did_ do it – who his contact is up here."

"Can't be that hard – can't be that many angels off desk duty flitting around the world."

"There's only one I know about in London," Hastur said. "No one impressive – just a ruddy bookshop angel."

Only a couple feet away, trying to inch out from behind the lamppost unobserved, Aziraphale gulped.

"Well, there you are, then."

"Problem is no one in Hell thinks it's very likely. Even _I_ have to admit it's a bit of a stretch."

"When we find Crowley, you could just beat him until he sells him out – you'd like that."

"Course I would, but he's trying to save his own snakeskin. Why would he give away his contact and admit he'd done it? Beelzebub would let us tear every feather out of those slick wings of his if we could prove he was turncoat – and the bastard _knows_ it. That's why he fled the dirty hotel in such a damn hurry."

"What's that, over there?"

Hastur stomped over to the bench and picked something up.

Ligur looked over his shoulder. "Looks like Crowley."

Aziraphale patted the front of his coat, feeling something squashy – the cake slice in its flattened box and bag. Groaning inwardly, he realised he must have dropped the photograph.

Hastur snarled and the photograph in his hand caught fire, flared up, smoked briefly, ashes casting themselves into the wind, then was gone.

"Too bad it's not really him," said Ligur.

"Tell me about it." The demon paused, a hungry expression on his face. "You know, I bet if we somehow herded him towards that fat bookshop angel tonight, let him think they were alone, free to talk, he'd sing like a bloody songbird."

" _If_ he did it," Ligur added.

"Right."

Aziraphale, having heard this, stopped trying to edge away. Those foolish demons might just have unwittingly given Crowley a chance to get out of this somewhat unscathed.

* * *

"Where is it ye want to be off to next, Mr. Crowley?" Shadwell asked, as they left the cafe and walked hastily out of the way of some very active traffic for that time of night.

"Care for something a bit stronger than tea, Shadwell?"

"Eh, I knew it! That whiskey earlier wasn't enough for ye?" the young witchfinder laughed good-naturedly. "Yer one as can hold your drink, I'd bet my life on it."

"There's a place up this way."

"Aye. One of them nights where it might as well happen."

As soon as they'd entered the tavern and Shadwell had downed enough from his tall beer that Crowley thought he might not remember this, he leaned over, put a hand on Shadwell's arm, and whispered, "Shh...go to sleep..."

"Eh...that's a funny thin' tah..." Shadwell slumped forward.

Crowley caught him before he could hit anything and dragged the unconscious man out of the tavern.

Raising one arm, the demon hailed a taxi, the driver of which skidded to a stop, and – leaning out his window – laughed when he saw Shadwell.

"Had too much, did he?"

"Something like that," Crowley agreed, opening the door and gently depositing the now snoring Lance Corporal Shadwell onto the backseat. "I'm going to give you directions to a hotel, as well as a name to give to the night manager."

The driver opened his mouth to ask for payment upfront.

Anticipating this, Crowley snapped his fingers. "You are going to do it because you _want_ to," he hissed. "And Shadwell is going to be perfectly safe with you."

"That's right, I want to," echoed the driver, entranced. "Perfectly safe. Just need that hotel name."

Crowley gave it to him, along with a name that was not A.J. Crowley. Hastur and Ligur knew about that one, but he had another few dozen aliases, one of which currently had credit at a very nice hotel. Shadwell would be taken there, he would sleep, and he would be safe. The demon saw a long life ahead for Shadwell – it might even be a happy one if Aziraphale was right and humans really could overcome their pasts and be the better for it.

He wasn't about to see it cut short on his behalf.

Watching the taxi speed off, he breathed a sigh of relief. He only hoped the occult powers he'd just used hadn't drawn too much attention from Hastur. If he started leaving a proper trail, tonight's ongoing game of chase the snake was going to end very badly for him.

* * *

Crowley wandered the streets aimlessly for a while – it was almost sunrise, the stars were going away and the sky was lightening – not knowing where it was safe to go. He couldn't go back to where he was staying, and he couldn't go back to the Bentley – it was too close to the twenty-four hour deadline, and Aziraphale – wherever he currently was – might turn up there looking for his address. Crowley couldn't risk accidentally leading Hastur there at the same time.

That was when he spotted – his demon eyes could see perfectly well even in the low lighting of dusk – none other than the stupid angel himself leaning idly against the side of a public telephone box.

"What the Heaven are you doing here?" he hissed, rushing forward.

Aziraphale let out a yelp. "Oh _nooooo_. Demon!"

Confused, Crowley looked over his shoulder. Nobody there. "Angel, what–"

"Ah, so you've finally spotted me, have you?" said Aziraphale, sounding weary and resigned. "Been a long time since Eden, hasn't it?"

A little bell went off in Crowley's head. _As far as Hell or Heaven is concerned, I never even spotted you down here, haven't seen you since Eden._

Someone was watching them, then. Probably Hastur. And Aziraphale had worked it out.

Clever, clever angel.

Crowley gave his most menacing hiss. "That's right."

Aziraphale's eyes darted down to a stain spreading on the side of Crowley's shirt; part of the bandaging over his stab wound must have come loose. He grimaced and took a forcible step backwards, pressed more firmly against the side of the telephone box, probably to keep himself from rushing over to inspect it.

Hastur appeared, followed closely by Ligur, and they both looked furious. This plan was _supposed to_ end with Crowley being caught red-handed, giving them free license to do whatever they wanted to him. It should have _worked_!

"I don't flaming believe this," Hastur snapped. "He's your contact, he's bloody _got_ to be."

"No one else in London," Ligur added, unhelpfully.

"Contact?" Aziraphale looked self-righteously appalled. "I am an _angel_." He pressed a plump hand to his heart. "I'd never associate with a demon! Especially not _Crawly_."

"Hello, Hastur, old bean. I _missed_ you!" Crowley grinned, holding out an arm theatrically in Hastur's general direction. "How was discorporation?"

"Keep joking, funny man," Hastur spat.

Crowley lowered his arm.

"If you didn't do it, what'd you shoot him for?" demanded Ligur.

"Some idiot _human_ shot him – I was lying on ground with blood pouring from my side."

Hastur had to concede on this, though it galled him.

"Well, isn't that nice. Everything's all wrapped up. One big misunderstanding. I'll be off." Aziraphale started moving away from them, only for Ligur to grab him by the arm. "Ahem. I _said_ I'll be off."

"Where do you think _you're_ going?"

"Er, back to my bookshop, before anyone sees me talking to the three of you and I get falsely accused of fraternizing."

"Very easy mistake to make," Crowley caught on, serpentine grin widening. "One could almost think – well, being as we're _all_ here – Hastur was meeting with this angel... Or _you_ , Ligur. I mean, everybody _knows_ I haven't seen him in six thousand years."

"So you just _happen_ to both be fomenting in Soho?" demanded Hastur.

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged glances and made exaggerated faces of revulsion at one another.

"Yep," said Crowley, looking away.

"Would certainly appear so," muttered Aziraphale, glancing down at his manicured hands.

Hastur looked up at the sky, then back at Crowley. "I don't trust you."

"Oh, you _wound_ me." Crowley pouted. "You know how fond I am of you, Duke Hastur. I always did admire you so."

Aziraphale coughed.

Ligur glared and let go of his arm.

" _Next time_ someone down below breathes a single word about you stepping out of line, Crowley," Hastur warned, leering forward, "I'm coming for you. And I'll do far worse than just give you a little nick on the side."

"Right, well," said Crowley, barely willing to believe how well things were turning out, "in the meantime, I'll just pop into Hell in the next few days and drop off a report for Dagon explaining _everything_."

* * *

After he hadn't the foggiest idea how long, Lance Corporal Shadwell felt his eyes slowly opening. He found himself in strange surroundings. He was in a nice room, with gleaming white tile and a number of full-length mirrors. The bed he was laid across was the softest he'd ever been in.

He sat up in a hurry. This wasn't his room – nor his hotel. It smelled much too clean for that.

The last thing he remembered was...

_Mr. Crowley!_

He'd been drinking, and Mr. Crowley was there, and suddenly it was dark and he was here...

Could the witches have gotten to the tavern servers and doctored up his drink? Shadwell had heard of such things happening – or he'd read about it some place or other. Probably true, at any rate. Sounded like something witches might do. You couldn't turn your back on them for a moment, always up to something evil.

"I've got tah find him," Shadwell decided, jumping to his feet. "He's out there all on his awne." He paused for a moment, trembling. "Aye, and his bandages will need checkin', make sure the blood's nawt sleepin' through."

The mirrors caught his anxious reflection every way he turned.

"What sort of a place _is_ this?"

A gleaming pearl-and-cream rotary telephone on a stationary-lined desk began ringing.

Shadwell crab-walked over to it, touched it gingerly with two dirty fingers, and picked up the receiver as if it was a grenade with the pin pulled out.

Slowly, he dragged it up to his ear. "Yes, hello?"

"Lance Corporal Shadwell, how _are_ you?"

He recognised the voice. "Mr. Crowley! I'd thought the witches got ye!"

"No, I'm happy to tell you I'm completely witch free at the moment."

"Very glad to hear it."

"I just wanted to let you know, the room and breakfast has already been paid for, and I'm awaiting you downstairs in the lobby."

"Oh?" A twinge of suspicion wormed its way into his voice. "Is that how it is?"

"Indeed. And I'd like to thank you for what you did for me last night."

"Was doin' an honest man's work in the fight against the darkness, yer honour, nothin' more."

"Well, as I understand it, these top secret organizations, like your Witchfinder Army, can always use a sponsor." He could practically hear Crowley's slow-spreading smile over the phone. "It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Yer offering _money_...?" Cogs and wheels were turning in Shadwell's head. If he were a cartoon, little American dollar signs would have been visible in his widened eyes.

" _Yes_ , with my gratitude. Of course, I'd require you to do a bit of poking around for me – investigating odd phenomenons on my behalf – from time to time."

"Aye, Mr. Crowley." He had to steady himself against the desk; he'd gone a bit weak at the knees. "You've got yerself a deal."

* * *

When Shadwell went down to breakfast, he noticed rather a lot of things. He noticed the shiny colours of the walls (he'd never been in a hotel with so many bright colours before); he noticed the rich aroma of sausages and the fine sizzle of peppers heating up in some unseen kitchen; he noticed the sound of spoons against teacups; he noticed the near-silence of the heating vents and the absence of rats, or vermin of any sort.

He noticed, too, that Mr. Crowley looked a lot better this morning.

But there were things Shadwell did _not_ notice as well.

He didn't notice that Crowley was somewhat subdued; behind every smile and wisecrack, he was melancholy. Shadwell had no way of knowing that he was feeling strangely alone because moments like this could never last for his kind. That he was trying not to think about how, in a few years, he'd look more or less the same but Shadwell would be beginning to show signs of ageing.

They'd never be properly friends. This was all they'd ever have.

Probably for the best, anyway.

Witchfinder, demon. Would never have worked out.

In fact, it was almost as bad as...

_Angel, demon._

And _that_ was the last thing Shadwell didn't notice that morning.

He didn't see the man who would one day be his other sponsor, sitting at a table across from theirs, not noticing Shadwell there at all, instead glancing rather sadly at Crowley, who, from behind his newspaper and sunglasses, and between answering Shadwell's questions, occasionally looked up and nodded to the angel before quickly turning away.

They'd decided it was best if they didn't associate for a little while, until Hell cooled down some – if you could pardon the bad joke.

But things were different for _them_.

They had the Arrangement.

And maybe – just maybe, if things didn't go pear-shaped – they had forever.


	3. Epilogue

_Young Shadwell Versus The Forces of Hell_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

**_Epilogue_ **

_The Present Day, at a cafe:_

"Your father?" Shadwell inquired. "How is he?" He paused and looked at the man in the dark glasses seated across from him; the hairstyle was different, because times change and children do not adopt the sensible fashions of their parents, not in this degenerate age, but everything else was a dead ringer for his old friend. "You resemble him very much, you know."

Young Mr. Crowley, aloof as ever, turned a page in the newspaper he was reading. "So they tell me. He's well."

Shadwell did not show his relief. Still, there was a nervous little part of him who always expected this Crowley to tell him his father had died – after all, the man had not appeared in public for...oh, many, many years...

Shadwell was pretty sure they were Mafia.

Most likely, secluded retirement was something everyone in that line of business did after a while, for their own protection.

When was it, _exactly_ , that Shadwell had started corresponding with the son in his father's place?

The funny thing, Shadwell thought, was that he'd never seen _his_ Mr. Crowley – the friend he'd fought a witch as wore a toad on his head with in 1967 – with a child. He'd never seen _this_ Crowley as a little laddie, clutching at his father's hand, asking for sweets. Never watched him grow; never heard about any milestones in his life. Which was a shame – he fully believed Crowley must have been rather a nicer father than his own; it really might have done his old half-mad heart good to see him in action.

At any rate, somewhere along the way, _this_ Crowley had replaced his own.

It was the sort of thing Shadwell tried not to think too hard about, like his own childhood.

He really shouldn't make any fuss about it. He was still getting paid after all, the deal had remained, passed from father to son, always on time and always in cash. That was nothing to sneer at. Shadwell only had one other open hand besides Crowley's. Apart from that, there would have been no income for the Witchfinder Army at all.

He really ought to be grateful.

Except...

Well...

Perhaps he was just getting silly in his old age, but he...

Well...

Well, sometimes, he missed his friend.

_Fin_


End file.
